


Forget-Her-Not

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:51:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3593604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers up to 2.10  He's been empty of everything since the day he chose to have her hanged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forget-Her-Not

A long time ago, when Athos was still Olivier, he was kicked in the ribs by his brother Thomas’ pony. As he lay on the grass, staring up at the blue sky, trying to remember how to breathe, how not to cry, he wondered if he would ever feel as much pain again.

He did. It happened on a warm day in June, when his head was full of Anne. They’d spent the morning outside, riding the estate, tethering their horses and making love to each other over and over again, as was their obsession. He could still taste her sweet on his tongue when he heard Catherine's scream, and went running in to the drawing room to find Thomas dead on the floor. 

Papers were shoved into his hand and he stared at them blindly, Catherine’s voice a drone in his ears. Anne was a liar. Anne was a thief. Anne was a murderer. 

"Thomas tried to force me. I had to defend myself." 

She must be wrong because Thomas loved her like a sister. He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t even put an injured bird out of its misery. But why else would she kill his brother, when less than an hour ago they’d been talking of the future, naming babies they’d have and choosing faraway places to visit? Why?

“Was it all a lie?” he asked, looking sideways at her, eight years old again if the pain was anything to go by.

If it wasn’t for the despair on her face she’d look as divine as always. Not in the way of court, coiffured and powdered with a structured gown and arsenic white face, but divine in the true sense of the word.

“You have to help me,” she pleaded. “I love you.”

It was his duty as seigneur to pronounce sentence. He made the monstrous decision to have her hanged, but the pain he felt from sight of that noose around her neck proved impossible to live with. He died that day also, to the music of the birdsong and the creak of the gallows tree. 

That was then...

To find out that she is alive is the worst, possibly the best day of his life. Drunk, as he often is, he rolls into her, breathing in jasmine and forget-me-nots. Her hand is in his hair and he rocks into her, stealing comfort from the place he least deserves it. 

“Anne,” he breathes and wants this to last forever. Let them die together. Let it be over. He’d be happy to end everything, exsanguinated and burned to a crisp in her arms. He doesn’t want to be saved.

“Athos? Athos!” 

D’Artagnan is calling for him. The boy sounds distressed, but why? He hardly knows him. It’s not as if he’ll _ever_ know him. 

“Go,” he chokes, pushing him away. “ _Please_.” What's the point of carrying on with this sham now that she has, once again, left him?

From this day onwards, life becomes an uphill slog. Cursed with the ability to feel too much of everything, he keeps a tight rein on his emotions. He's renowned for being a stoic, and so he must become that again. Only his closest friends know that he’s worse off than ever, but they love him enough to leave him alone.

Instead of being gone, she's there all the damn time. A flash of scarlet, a waft of perfume. A whisper of her that makes his cock tingle with need.

“Why do you still wear my locket?” she asks when they confront each other on equal terms and neutral territory.

“I sometimes wonder myself,” he answers and her magnetism passes through metal links as she grasps the heavy chain between her fingers.

That kiss between them is the sweetest thing he’s felt, the _only_ thing he’s felt in years. He wants her, but he can never have her. She is the cardinal’s assassin and the next time they do this she’ll kill him as soon as kiss him.

When he finds out that she’s slept with d’Artagnan, it's as agonising as a sword thrust to his side. If it was all part of a plan to bring him down then perhaps he could forgive--forget?--but he’s no fool. He knows that she saw in d’Artagnan the same passion that had once existed in him. He’s cold now: an empty man, devoid of a life. 

Death and resurrection become the beginning and the end. He begs silently for a real coffin, but his deathwish will not solve any of their problems. 

"It was strange," she says when he dares to ask her how it had felt with him gone. “The world seemed diminished without you.” 

He understands. Her honesty is clear to see, so why didn’t he know back then -- when Thomas was stabbed to death and Catherine was screaming out vicious hatred in his ear. He hasn’t slept properly since that day. He closes his eyes and lives it over and over again, never able to separate the truth from the lies.

She was a thief when she was young, but that doesn’t make her a murderer. The fact that she has become one since, only adds to his guilt.

He can threaten and he can posture--the greatest swordsman in France?--but he cannot kill her. Not again. Instead he pulls her up to standing until he’s _almost_ holding her, and they’re a cruel parody of a loving couple.

“Was it all a lie?” he says to her, his words too quiet for his friends to hear. “Did you ever love me?”

“You know I did,” she murmurs and her breath is still sweet, and he wants her so much that it burns like fever.

“Go,” he says. “Go to England, Spain. Go anywhere, but if I see you in Paris again I _will_ kill you.” _This here_ is the lie and they both recognise it for what it is.

The others think they’ve helped spare her life, but their presence has saved him from doing something far more lethal.

“There can be no peace for us until we are both dead,” are her parting words and he knows, without doubt, that she is right.

That was then...

Love is a fire. It consumes everything in his path until there is nothing left but ash. With the locket and her both gone, he’d thought there was a seed of a chance that he might live again. But no. He’s dormant and can do nothing but wait and dream and do his job as best he can.

Offering the Comte de Rochefort a hand of friendship is final proof to him that his judgement is severely flawed. Everything is collapsing piece by piece: the regiment, his friends, even his belovéd commander falls by the wayside. Then there is _her_ , brought back to torture him, untouchable now and on a pedestal that’s far higher than the one he ever placed her on. 

He gets drunk a lot these days and on one of these occasions is insensible enough to be kidnapped. Rather than being ransomed or interrogated, he’s taken back to the scene of the crime, his ugly past stripped raw for all to see. He doesn’t know why he tells Catherine that she didn’t die that day. Conceit maybe? Hatred too if he’s honest. She’s responsible for this. She wouldn’t give him time to think. She demanded revenge and he listened to her instead of his beautiful, wronged wife.

He cries when he returns to Paris, hiding away in his quarters, amongst plaintive letters for help, and those tears burn like sickness.

They meet now with a frequency that challenges them both. She tells him that he’ll always love her, whatever she becomes, and he no longer attempts to deny it. She offers to help the Musketeers, and whilst he may reject the idea of trust, he'll never reject _her_. 

Every touch is fire, every look impossible to pull away from, and now, when he dreams, it isn’t of her noosed and awaiting death. Now he dreams of their bed at La Fère, of the taste of her cunt and the softness of her mouth, and he wakes with his hand wrapped around himself, salt pooling on sheets and pillow.

It should feel like some kind of atonement to be there to save her from Catherine’s noose, but instead, now that he’s held her body flush against his, he has only one thing on his mind. She shivers in his arms, frightened perhaps that he was going to let her hang for a second time.

“Believe your own lies if you must, Athos,” says Catherine, “but don’t expect me to listen to them. Her cruelty excites you. You love her and you always will.”

“This ends here, Catherine,” he says and he recognises the pistol, that he casts aside, as one of a brace that once belonged to Thomas. “Forgive me, if you can.”

There’s no time for this. They have a job to do. There are so many lives at stake, an entire country even, but the moment she’s near him he can’t think about anything but her. She fills him. Flows through him. They breathe each other in, every gasp, every tensed muscle, a teller of tales. 

“You should have let Catherine finish the job,” she says coolly. “Then you’d have been rid of me for good.”

His stomach lurches with fear, and he instinctively grabs her arm. The idea of living in a world without her is unthinkable. He’s tried it before. It was hell.

“Do you still maintain that my brother tried to rape you?” He doesn’t need to ask this question. He knows her answer. He wrongs her again by asking it. 

“Why would I lie about such a thing?” she says, and he can hear the anguish in her voice. 

“You lied about _everything_ ,” he replies and he’s crying again. The tears are invisible, but he can feel the sting of them all the same. “You sold yourself to the cardinal.”

“What else did I have to live for?” She won't cry in front of him ever again. “Why not become the woman you thought me to be?”

They move closer, drawn in on emotion that’s so real, so painful that they both understand that they can never let go.

Paranoia builds in him as they slip unnoticed through the palace. Rochefort’s rooms are icy, more like a morgue than a chamber, and far more unpleasant than they were when the cardinal was in residence. 

She takes pride in her work, a thrill on her face as the lock of the casket pings open, and he reaches for her, making a detour at the last second to take possession of a handful of Rochefort’s letters to read. The sound of voices alerts him of the danger and slipping Rochefort’s seal into his pocket, he draws his pistol, ready to fight a way out of there when she calls him over to the hidden alcove behind the bookcase.

They’re too close like this, bodies in contact, and with danger an added aphrodisiac, he shoves aside the urge to have, take, love. Her breath is warm against his skin, fast with desire, and he can feel her eyes on him as he watches Rochefort prowl the room, warned of an intruder’s presence by the wisp of smoke from the candle.

The commotion from the corridor is the distraction he needs. There is discordant caterwauling from all directions, shouts that the king has been poisoned. Guards charge along the passageways to attend His Majesty and, in a single moment of madness, he aims his pistol at Rochefort and fires. The shot comes from within three feet and is direct to the head.

“Olivier,” she hisses, hands covering her ears. “What have you done?” But even in the near darkness he can see the spark in her eyes.

“It’s a solution,” he says as he drops the pistol and kisses her and they’re so highly charged that they crackle. His mouth is full of her. He claws to get closer, the seams of her dress tearing under the pressure of his hands.

“It’s lunacy,” she replies and she’s gripping the leather of his doublet in panic. “You have to get away from here. If they find out then they’ll also blame you for whatever’s happened to the king and you’ll hang. They’ll be here in minutes to fetch Rochefort.”

As they hide the body in a conveniently empty coffer he finally knows what it is to be fearless, blind to everything but her as they shift like the wind through the underground maze of passages.

“Wait,” he says, forcing her back against him before she picks the lock to a barred iron gate that leads out of the grounds. “If I am to die.”

“You’ll not do it alone as I had to,” she says through gritted teeth. “And you will not do it without this.”

The hunger between them is as consuming as love, a phoenix now rather than just ash, and as he bares her breast and teases her nipple with his tongue she reaches for his cock. Their sex is as brazen and as wild as it always was, when they would have each other everywhere, no room sacred, no bed unchristened. He tears at her underclothes, wets his finger with spit and toys with her clit until she’s arching against him. He’s hot in her palm, slick and ready, and as he lifts her onto him, she locks her legs around his body and they sigh into each other’s mouths at the mutual relief of being back.

“Anne,” he says and it’s a long overdue plea for forgiveness that comes straight from his heart.

She kisses him, his face cradled in her hands, and there is a lightness there that he hasn’t seen in years. They pause, still joined, their game of brinkmanship at a new level. His hand cups her breast, his thumb presses against her clit, stroking her, pushing her until she’s braced on his shoulders, taking him root deep inside her and then crying out and falling against him.

To have her like this is everything. There is blood on their hands, blood all over them, but none of it matters. 

“I love you,” he says and the past is over and done with.

“I’ve always loved you,” she confesses as they fuck hard, pushed up against the damp stone wall. “And neither of us are going to damn well die,” she adds when they’ve finished and he lowers her to the ground. “So get a move on.”

They travel through the night to the convent, horses and riders both dropping with tiredness when they get there.

“Athos, did you get the letters?” asks Treville.

“No,” he answers. “But I killed Rochefort.”

They level accusations unfairly her way and he’s angry. “She had nothing to do with it. _I_ shot him,” he says. “Why would I lie?”

“The king is poisoned and Rochefort dead,” says Treville. “If you were spotted by _anyone_ whilst you were in his rooms then you’ll be charged with treason and executed.”

“We weren’t seen.” She yawns like a cat.

“I must go back to Paris to be with Louis,” says the queen. “He’ll be terrified.”

“Well, at least you won’t have Rochefort around to bother you.”

He lets out a quiet huff of laughter at her irreverent words and the other Musketeers stare at him in disbelief. He’s not ashamed. He loves all of her, her wicked ways as much as her good ones.

“So, what do we do now?” says d’Artagnan, pacing the room. “We still have no proof.”

“We have this.” He hands over Rochefort’s seal. “Write to the Spanish spymaster. Lure him in.”

“And what will you do?” snaps Treville.

“We’ll go to England,” he says. He looks at her for approval and she nods. “We always planned to visit there.”

“You can’t just go,” says d’Artagnan, young enough to be full of rashful exuberance. There are no similar arguments from his other comrades. They know him better than that.

“I’m tired,” she says, taking him by hand. “Let’s go to bed.”

They’re an old married couple and whilst the other Musketeers might be less than happy at the sleeping arrangements, Sister Teresa has no objection to them sharing a room.

“We’ve fucked in a lot of different places, but never a monastic cell,” she says as she pulls at his breeches and kisses him intimately.

“Or a prison cell,” he laughs, bucking with unadulterated delight at the delicate touch of her mouth.

“Soon we’ll be on a ship,” she smiles up at him. “That’ll be new too.”

She’s bare and beautiful, her hair flowing and her lips red from too many kisses. “Do you have money for passage?” he asks with a smirk.

“I’ll pay you back.” She smiles her gap toothed smile and straddles his body, his cock in her hand as she’s poised ready to take him in. “Will this do well enough?”

It does. In fact, it does so well that by morning they’re more tired than ever, and the looks they receive over the refectory table are none too friendly.

After breakfast they saddle up, ready to leave the convent: three parties heading in three different directions.

“Be careful.” Treville holds out a hand to him as they prepare to ride off. “How will we contact you when we’re sure you’re in the clear?”

“I’ll take care of that,” she says with a triumphant smile as he helps her onto her horse. “And so the Inseparables separate.”

“Not for long,” says Porthos, glaring at her.

She laughs, but it’s a brittle sound and she turns immediately to him for support.

He responds by aiming a sharp but fond look at Porthos. “Try to stay alive,” are his parting words to the Musketeers. They’re closer than brothers, but she, after all, is his wife. 

In three days time they’re boarding a brigantine in Calais, ready to set sail for Dover, and as he goes to write their names into the bill of passage, she snatches the pen from his hand and fills in simply: Milady and Athos.

“We don’t need to be more,” she says as they’re shown to their cabin.

She’s right as always. They’re perfect as they are.


	2. Genuflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a ficlet for the _Athos on his knees_ challenge on Tumblr.

Athos speaks English reasonably well, but his knowledge of the country is mostly based on outdated stories of the royal court, as told to him by his father when he was growing up. Being neither ambassadors nor nobility, he and Milady are thrown into London life on a baptism of fire, staying at a rat infested lodging house in Bankside -- one of the better ones in the area, so they've been reliably informed by their pustular landlord.

Milady loves it here in England. She spent a lot of time in London when she was working for the cardinal, and has picked up both language and etiquette as if she were born to it.

"You're never at a disadvantage," laughs Athos as he begins to dress for the theatre. A Marlowe play is being performed at the Salisbury Court and they’re both looking forward to seeing it.

"It's my job. I can be whatever you'd like me to be." She yawns in lazy fashion as she lounges on the bed, naked but for her corset and drawers. "I think I'll be your mistress. It's far more exciting than a spouse."

"You excite me enough as it is," he says, kneeling over her and suckling at each nipple in turn, until they swell and peep rosy above the rigid binding of the stays. "Too much more and it would kill me."

They kiss, sweet and slow, and soon he is out of the breeches he has just put on and his braies are unlaced, cock standing rigid and ready for her. She pulls him towards her, wanting to fuck, but instead he licks a leisurely path down her body, teasing her by wicked design until she captures him with her thighs and pushes his face into her, squirming as he laps softly at her clit. Every muscle quivers as her orgasm builds, and soon she is dragging him upwards and into her, trembling around him and rutting out the rest of her climax, a leg raised and bent to hold him in place.

"You can be my mistress," he says, his voice rough with need as they part company then join back together, her on all fours and him kneeling behind. "You can be my lover, my wife, anything you wish as long as you're mine."

"Your boy?" she laughs, for there are no games they haven't explored in the name of love. 

"That too." He enjoys it immensely when they read erotic poems to each other, chuckling at the flowery language as they act out their roles with an array of playthings. 

"Would any of your friends even recognise you, Athos?" she asks, peering over her shoulder, a expression of adoration momentarily lighting up her face.

He turns her again in the bed, burying his face between her breasts, her hands sliding under the linen shirt to ghost over his skin. "We are newborn," he says and takes her with hard thrusts of cock, his fingers working her to a second climax which instantly triggers his own.

"Newborn," she says as they lie together, wrapped up in the afterglow, her lips brushing against his. "I like that."

Moving down the bed until he's lying between her legs, he cleans her with his mouth until she's wriggling away from his attentions, giggling like the girl she once was when he first fell in love with her. "Stop it. You know I can't just yet."

"Whatever you say, Milady." Crawling upwards, he kisses her again and again, his mouth a cocktail of their lovemaking. 

"I was never a lady to you or your family," she says, looking at him with serious eyes. "It's why I adopted that as a name."

"Not true," says Athos and he takes her hand and kisses each knuckle. "I don’t give a damn about them, but to me you were everything. You _are_ everything."

The hammering at the door is unexpected and unwanted.

"A minute," Athos demands, dressing himself and then making certain that his wife is also respectable. The knocking is repeated more urgently this time, and he throws open the door in a temper.

"Athos of the King's Musketeers?" says the messenger.

"Yes," he answers, and without another word a letter is thrust into his hand and the man departs.

"What is it?" asks Milady, urging him to open it with impatient eyes. 

When he does nothing she walks over to him, ready to snatch it from his hand.

"It's Treville's seal," he says as he breaks it open. Scanning through the words, he takes in the news. "I'm in the clear." He looks at Milady. "Vargas confessed to the king. His Majesty now accepts that Rochefort lied about everything."

"Including the child?" says Milady.

“Thankfully yes.” Athos nods and keeps reading. "Aramis has left the Musketeers for holy orders. D'Artagnan and Constance are married."

"How sweet," says Milady, her sneer firmly in place. "Get to the point."

"France is now at war with Spain. " Athos closes his eyes for a moment to ward off the implications of this.

"And?" says Milady. "Tell me the rest." Even after five years apart and two years as enemies, she knows him better than he knows himself.

"Treville has been made Minister for War and has promoted me to captain of the Musketeers. He insists I return to Paris immediately."

"And will you go?" asks Milady.

For the first time in weeks the jug of wine is calling to him. "What choice do I have?"

"Ignore the letter and choose me," she says and then she slams her open palms against his chest. "Though I know you won't ever do that, you bastard. I should never have told Treville where we were living." 

She's so full of despair that it hurts, and Athos falls to his knees to honour her the old fashioned way. "My love, if I could change this then I would."

She beats at his shoulders, but the blows are never hard enough to bruise. "If you go to war with your regiment, you will not die on some nameless battlefield. You hear me, Athos. You will not die. We die together." Her hands are open now and she curls one around the back of his neck and pulls him against her.

He wraps both arms around her, burying himself in her body and holding her so tightly that they are no longer bound together, but have become one person, all those fractured parts now on the mend.

"You promise me," she says and she tangles her fingers into his hair and tugs at it until he's looking up at her.

"I promise you."

They remain like this, clinging to each other for the longest time, until his knees begin to creak more than the floorboards and he has to push himself upright.

"There is passage booked for us on a barque that leaves in three days from Southampton. Porthos and d'Artagnan will meet us in Le Havre.” He cannot let go of her yet. “We have time still."

"Not enough," she says, eyes flashing with fury. "I won’t be like that draper’s widow and sit at home, darning stockings and waiting for your return."

"I’m sure you won’t," smirks Athos. He doubts Constance will either, but he won't ignite the situation. He’s learned a little about subtlety recently. "I love you just as you are: ruthless and entirely untameable."

She laughs. "How am I supposed to stay angry with you when you're this adept with your tongue?"

"In all ways?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Oh most definitely.” Her smile is feline and lustful. "In fact, Athos, why don't you kneel for me again."

Distracted by lovemaking, they miss out on seeing Doctor Faustus, but there will be other times and other plays, and for now, they are more than enough entertainment for each other.


	3. Flotsam and Jetsam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post season 2. Having arrived in Le Havre, the reception is none too warm, but Milady doesn't care. She has all she needs in Athos. He's all she ever needed.

Milady often wishes she could stop loving Athos so much. Her life was far easier during those dangerous days as Richelieu’s agent. (Agent is a more tasteful word than assassin, she always thinks.) Back then she could do her work, taking out every ounce of venom on the poor, misguided fools who stood in the cardinal’s path on his way up the political ladder. 

Then, for the second time in five years, the world twisted on its axis, and that erstwhile bastard of a husband slid, like an angel, into her arms, breathing out her name as if it were a prayer of atonement. He wanted to die with her, but she had no such deathwish and simply ached to have him back.

Now she has him all to herself, his mouth at her breasts, her cunt, her lips. His cock inside her body, where it belongs, as his words touch somewhere deeper than her heart. He loves her, she loves him, and things have returned to the way they were always meant to be. He is her soul. 

A storm is building in the Channel tonight. The barque, they are travelling back to France on, is being tossed around like flotsam, and lightning arcs from cloud to cloud as they fuck relentlessly in the narrow bunk, just in case this turns out to be the end. She longs for a shared death now, the way he did back at la Fère, unable to cope with the idea of a life without him. She longs also for a baby to complete their marriage, to bring an end to this combative desire to prove their devotion to each other. Sometimes, in her rare, quiet moments, she imagines them at Pinon, skin warmed from the sunshine as they lie wrapped up together. He’s smiling down at her the way he used to, full of laughter and adoration, as their dream children play around their feet in the meadow grass.

“I love you,” she murmurs, wishing that she could stop herself from confessing it so often.

By morning, the ship has navigated the storm and docked safely at Le Havre. Milady fastens her hair into a ponytail and tightens her belt, a dagger and a pistol secured beneath her cape. 

“How do I look?” she asks.

“As fuckable as always,” says Athos and his eyes linger over her as he kneels to put on her boots. Lifting her skirts, he plants a single open mouthed kiss to her silk covered cunt and then breathes on her until she’s grinding against him.

“You’re a wretch,” she says as he looks up at her, his face full of cheeky delight. “I should beat you.”

“You’d rather I spanked you,” he says, standing up then lifting her over his shoulder and resting the palm of his hand across her bottom.

“I'm beginning to think I preferred it when we were enemies,” she says, her voice filled with laughter as her fingertips wander over his back in the direction of his ticklish ribs.

“Oh did you?” In a clever twist of a move, he manoeuvres her into his arms and then kisses her soundly on the mouth. “I can divorce you if you wish, Milady.”

She tilts her head and gazes up at him. “It would be an improvement on hanging.”

They can tease each other with this now. The past is no longer a festering wound, as it was when they first had to work together.

“Was it like this before?” he says, and beneath that cool exterior he’s still the shy young man she fell in love with. “I seem to remember it was.”

“It was,” she assures him. “All the time.”

They leave their cabin, bidding a quick farewell to the skipper, and with Athos carrying their few belongings in one hand, they disembark from the Lady Charlotte.

“Charlotte is my given name,” she says as he offers a hand to help her step clear of the gangplank. Her words are spoken carelessly and yet this admission is as painful as if she’s bared her soul for the first time.

“Milady and Athos,” he reminds her, his eyebrow arched. “Newborn and free.” Putting down their luggage, he takes her into his arms. “But thank you for telling me.”

“No more secrets,” she promises, her face buried in his chest, and she could cry for the first time in years because it finally feels as if she can set aside the horrible creature she has become.

“Just one question,” he says and she looks up at him curiously. “Are we lawfully married?”

“We are,” she says softly. “Always and forever.” She tidies his unruly hair with a gloved hand. "What would you do if we were not?"

"Find a priest to marry us now," he says and they kiss, softly at first and then with open mouths as the hunger builds. 

“Touching,” says a voice from behind them on the quay. “But we need to get a move on.”

D’Artagnan is glaring down at her from horseback, judgemental and angry as always, as if he blames her for everything that has gone wrong in the world. He, in contrast, means nothing to her.

"Is your own marriage already so dull that you begrudge us our happiness, d'Artagnan?" she says, her arms still wound around her husband's waist, his hands resting on her shoulders.

Athos tilts his head and berates her with a look. "Porthos, d'Artagnan," he says, pleasure written clear at seeing his friends again. Leaving Milady's embrace, he keeps hold of her hand until the last minute. "Good to see you followed my orders and stayed alive."

Porthos grabs him and pulls him into a bear hug. "Not orders," he says. "Though you'll have that privilege soon, Captain."

"Don't," says Athos, his face reddening with embarrassment. "I'll be discussing that particular matter with Treville. I’m sure we can come up with a more suitable candidate."

Milady looks at all three men and huffs in a dismissive way. "Who else could take command?"

"Fair point," says Porthos and he nods his agreement to her. She smiles because she can't help but like the big man. He may hate her, but he's had good reason to in the past and has always been a loyal friend to Athos.

"You can ride Aramis' horse to Douai," Porthos says handing her the reins. "He's fast, feisty and hot tempered, but I expect you'll get on with him all right. You have a lot in common."

"More so than slow and reliable," she answers, enjoying the war of words. "But I'm sure they can come to an understanding, and perhaps even work well together."

"Let's hope so." Porthos goes to help her mount, but Athos is there first, boosting her into the saddle, his hand roaming over her thigh despite the fact he is busy chatting to d'Artagnan about married life.

"How far is it to Douai?" she asks Porthos.

"We can do it in a day if we push on," he replies. "But we’ll break the journey if you'd prefer."

"No need," says Athos, smiling up at Milady.

He appreciates all her skills and is guilty of many a thing, but never of underestimating her. "No need at all," she agrees.

"Well then, let's go," snaps d'Artagnan.

"Are you afraid your pretty little wife will find a replacement for you while you’re gone?" Milady says, regretting her words as soon as she’s said them. Why arm the boy unnecessarily?

D'Artagnan snorts with derision. "Neither Constance nor I are are the ones to be worried about faithfulness."

Milady looks at Athos and holds a hand briefly over her heart. He knows her regrets, has forgiven her completely, and for that single thing alone she couldn’t love him more if she tried. 

Porthos and d'Artagnan must sense the weight of the moment and gee their horses on, leaving husband and wife alone to talk.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"For picking a fight with d'Artagnan?" Athos smirks at her. "I should hope so; he's half your age."

"The cheek of it." She laughs and blushes all at the same time. "I'm sorry for the way I behaved."

"As are we both." He reaches out a gloved hand to connect with her. "We've been through this enough times now. Let's be happy with what we have, my love."

"I _am_ happy," she says. "So very happy." Too happy perhaps. Fate will surely find a way of punishing her for it. She once told the cardinal that this world was Hell, and yet now it appears to have turned into paradise.

"This way, you two," yells a booming voice. "How are we supposed to rescue Aramis from the clutches of those monks if you take the road to Rouen?"

"Rouen or maybe ruin." D'Artagnan is smiling at his own joke, but Milady concedes that it's a good one and joins in with the laughter.

The weather worsens as they are three quarters of the way into their journey. They meet headlong with another storm system and the crashes of thunder, directly above their heads, are deafening.

"We could wait it out for a while," suggests Porthos as they come to a halt to discuss the situation, their horses whickering and nosing at each other for comfort. 

"No point," says Milady, looking around her. The only shelter nearby comes from a row of narrow poplars, not much use against this kind of downpour. She dismounts and hands the reins to Athos. "Hold him while I go for a pee."

The others follow her example, and once they’ve all relieved themselves, they swallow a mouthful of bread, wash it down with a slug of claret from the wineskin and are soon back on the road. 

With Athos’ boat cloak now wrapped around her shoulders, Milady takes a wild delight in the storm. Pushing her horse into a fast gallop, she can sense her husband’s growing excitement and knows that they’ll fuck good and hard tonight. If they'd been travelling alone they would have stopped along the way, and she allows herself a moment of fantasy: him on his knees, her skirts rucked up in his hands as he worships at her cunt.

Not knowing what a salacious woman they're welcoming into their midst, the Jesuit brethren offer them every kindness upon their arrival at Douai. Tired beyond belief, after an entire night without sleep, Milady could fall into bed right now, and from the look of exhaustion on Athos’ face, he’d happily go along with this plan. Porthos, however, is keen to see Aramis as soon as possible.

"He’s at prayer," says Brother Mathieu. "And he’ll be working in the kitchens afterwards."

"We're here on the king's business," explains Athos, accepting a flagon of wine from the monk. "We would not be troubling you unless it was urgent. My wife and I have travelled over from England to speak to our friend."

"I'll ask if he wishes to see you after Vespers has been sung," says Brother Mathieu. "But in the meantime, please accept our hospitality." The table has been laid out with food and Porthos is already eyeing it hungrily. "I'll have beds made up for you."

"Thank you, Brother," says Athos, suppressing a yawn.

Grateful for this generosity, three of their party tuck into the cold chicken and vegetables. Athos, however, remains content with wine alone until Milady passes him a full plate. "Eat," she says with a heated look. "You'll need energy later. I'll not have you flagging."

"Enough of that talk," grumbles Porthos. "Or I'll be taking holy orders myself."

Milady seats herself in Athos' lap, a triumphant smirk on her lips. "Go on then," she says. "I'm certain a tonsure will suit you well. I'll shave it myself if you like."

They're still laughing and joking with each other when Aramis arrives in the refectory to speak to them.

"It's wonderful to see you all," he says and Milady is surprised to find that she is included in the look he casts around the table. "But whatever news you bring will not persuade me to leave here."

"Aramis," says Athos, rising to greet his brother with a firm embrace and a kiss to the cheek. "War has been declared on Spain and the king needs you."

" _We_ need you," says Porthos, stealing Aramis from Athos and hugging him for at least a full minute.

"The regiment is to march on the border in less than a week," says d'Artagnan. "We're all having to make sacrifices, Aramis. I must leave my wife, though we've barely been married a month."

"Your wife?" says Aramis, grinning at Athos and Porthos. "Our child is all grown up."

"And I don't even resent the fact that two of my brothers were missing when Constance and I made our vows," says d'Artagnan. "Though the same will not be true if you refuse to stand beside us on the battlefield."

"Aramis must do what he feels is right," says Athos, rebuking the young man gently for being too forthright. "It's his decision to make."

"How is the queen bearing up in all this?" says Aramis, his expression guarded. "She must be distraught that her husband and brother are at war."

“She’s a brave lady,” says Porthos. “She supports the king in every way and, after the business with Rochefort, she’s not overly fond of her brother.”

The essential part of espionage is the ability to read a situation and Milady’s skills in this are unsurpassed. She knows it would be politic to leave Aramis and Porthos alone to talk matters over privately.

"D'Artagnan, can you check that our belongings have been brought to our rooms?" she says, and though he'd clearly love to refuse her, he's a bright young man and can see the reasoning behind her demands.

"Athos, take me to bed," she says, kissing her husband on the mouth. After all there's no harm in giving Aramis a gentle reminder of the things he'll be forswearing if he pursues the nonsensical idea of a career as an abbé. The queen is not the only woman in France. There are cunts a plenty for handsome soldiers.

When asked, one of the young novices leads the three visitors up to the west turret of the monastery. They'll be away from the dormitories at this end of the building and unable to corrupt the celibacy of the brothers with ways of the flesh.

D'Artagnan looks dubious when he is given the cell next to theirs, but Milady takes the trouble to reassure him: "Don't worry, the walls here are thick enough to be soundproof, I'm sure." She laughs. "And even if they're not, we're both tired and I promise we won't be fucking _all_ night long."

Athos smirks. "It's not as if you haven't had her before."

The look on the boy's face is priceless, but even so, Athos must pay and Milady goes to slam a fist against his chest. He's quicker though and catches her by the wrist, kissing the delicate pulse point until she trembles with desire.

"Go before you get carried away in the corridor and frighten any passing monks," says d'Artagnan with a snort of wry amusement.

Slamming the cell door behind them, they almost trip over in their haste to get to bed. Weaponry cast aside, their clothing is only half removed when they fall into each other and Milady wraps her legs around Athos, searching under his shirt to rake her nails over his skin. Fucking him is a relief as well as a pleasure. She’s never entirely content until they are joined.

"I can barely keep my eyes open," he complains as he looks up from her cleavage.

"You'll finish the job or else," she laughs.

"Or else what?"

"I'll find someone who will. I'll bet ten livres that Porthos has a big cock."

"He does indeed." Athos smiles at her. "But you belong to me, wife, and as penance for having such dirty thoughts you can do all the work tonight."

He turns them in a swift and practiced manoeuvre until she is seated astride him, and licking a fingertip, he reaches down to play with her clit.

"I belong to you, and you to me," she admits and she rests her hands on either side of his head, stilling her movements and kissing him with delicate thrusts of her tongue as he fingers her to the edge of climax. From then on, it becomes their usual wild ride and she fucks herself to a perfect conclusion and then dives between his legs to suck him off, licking her juices from him and then taking him deep into her throat. 

Shifting around once more, she straddles his face then leans forward to swallow him deep to the balls. He comes with a groan and she drinks him down, her mouth filled with bitter sweet salt as he tongues at her cunt, his beard rubbing rough against her clit until she's crying out again in pleasure. 

"We're a dirty pair," she remarks as she crawls upwards to rest in his arms and they slowly undress each other to naked. "Are we too dirty to be allowed a baby?"

"It will happen," he assures her. "When the time is right. As soon as we remember that pleasuring each other by mouth is not the best way to conceive."

She laughs, filled with utter joy at these words because he’s absolutely right. They spend far too much time on their knees licking each other off. "But you taste so good," she says with a contented smile.

After that, sleep comes easily and they’re woken at dawn by the bell ringing for Matins. They make love to the sound of plainsong, kissing and cuddling then fucking each other to a dreamlike orgasm, and she wonders afterwards, when he's tucked up against her, an arm falling loosely around her middle, whether being here at the monastery might mean that God will bless them. If only she had it in her to believe.

After more sleep and then a thorough wash in icy stream water, she and Athos arrive at the breakfast table to discover that Porthos and Aramis have stayed up the entire night talking things through.

"I've made up my mind to return with you," says Aramis, rubbing eyes that are lined red with exhaustion.

"I hope you don't feel that we've forced you into this decision," says Athos earnestly. "You'll always be our brother whether you choose holy orders or not."

Milady and Porthos exchange a look. This is precisely why Athos must captain the regiment. He's not only a fine soldier; he'll be a kind and considerate leader.

"I have amends to make and a duty to you all," says Aramis, clasping Athos by the forearm. "Plus, I can't allow you to have all the fun of a war. I'll return to Douai when the time is right. I've already spoken to the abbott and explained that I’m needed elsewhere for now."

"I'm thankful," says Athos with a full smile. "How could I hope to command a regiment without my best sharpshooter there beside me?"

D'Artagnan departs for the stables to prepare the horses for the journey back to Paris, and once Aramis has rid himself of his robes and returned to the refectory in full Musketeer uniform, his pauldron buckled into place, they're ready to leave the safe confines of the monastery. 

It's a moving sight, even for someone as cynical as Milady, to see the three soldiers so relieved to have their brother back with them, and she's grudgingly happy that Treville ordered Athos to return to the Musketeers. France is his home, the garrison his sanctuary. 

Refusing Brother Mathieu’s kind offer of a horse, she's more than happy to share a saddle with her husband. As the weeks turn to months, they find themselves increasingly bound together and she’s dreading the idea of seeing him march off to battle, despite the fact that she herself will be busy doing her own work. There’s nothing like a spot of espionage to help pass the time, and the new Minister for War will be in need of her services -- even if he doesn't yet know it.


	4. A Quickening of Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for a baby fic prompt on Tumblr. Athos is now commanding the regiment and they are soon off to war with Spain, but Milady knows she must be as be strong as always.
> 
>  
> 
> _She will not voice her worries to him though. It would not be fair to reveal anything which may put doubts into his mind. He needs to be at his strongest and cleverest to survive what lies ahead._

The machinery of war grinds slowly, cogs revolving, each inching the next along: an insult, a declaration, a time for preparation, weeks of strategizing, decisions, decisions, more decisions, until there can be nothing left to decide.

Milady is frustrated by this--if she had been in charge of conflict with Spain then it would have been over by now--but still, she’s happy that she gets to spend a few extra weeks with Athos before he leaves for the border.

“I wouldn’t go unless I had to,” he admits to her as they curl up in bed for one last night together. “I’m not afraid of battle, but I _am_ terrified of losing what I have here.” He strokes a loose curl of hair away from her forehead and kisses the skin that is revealed.

You will not lose me, she thinks. But I may lose you. She will not voice her worries to him though. It would not be fair to reveal anything which may put doubts into his mind. He needs to be at his strongest and cleverest to survive what lies ahead.

“You should be as I am,” she smiles. “No ties. No allegiances.”

“Not even to me,” he says with sorrowful eyes.

She laughs and brushes a thumb across his cheekbone. “Only to you, husband. As far as any country is concerned, I feel no desire to act in their defence.”

“And here was I thinking you’d be offering your services to Minister Treville.”

“Really?” She smirks at him and he chuckles in return.

“I have a retainer on those _particular_ services. I was thinking more of your talent for espionage.”

“I work for whomever offers the highest sum,” she says and then regrets her words immediately. “But I would never put you or your men in danger.”

“Listen,” says Athos, lifting her until she is seated astride him. “I will never doubt you again and so, in return, you must promise never to doubt yourself.”

This is a moment she is unlikely to forget. The moment she knows she has truly earned his trust as well as his respect. Love swells then turns guilelessly to lust. She reaches for him, takes him inside her and then leans forward to whisper secrets against his lips. “You are my love,” she says. “You always have been. Always will be.”

“Likewise,” he says and it’s so typically economical of him that the solemnity dies and they laugh together, aligned and moving in harmony like the stars.

It’s after she waves the regiment off next morning, standing apart from the others, never quite at ease with the Musketeer family, that she allows a trickle of panic to seep through and emerge as a tear.

“They’ll be all right,” says a firm, provincial voice from beside her. “I’ve made each one of them promise that they’ll come back to us, safe and sound.”

“I hope you’re right, Constance.” Milady rests a hand over belly and shivers at the quickening of the child growing inside her.

\---

Without family or husband, Milady finds herself alone in Paris and more vulnerable than she has ever been in her life. Athos has provided for her, his army wages will keep her fed and clothed, but she has never experienced pregnancy before and has no idea where to turn for advice.

She pays for a regular visit to a doctor, but he is of little use and tells her each time that the child is developing as expected. His one concession is to introduce her to a midwife who turns out to be a slovenly creature, and whose services she rejects on the grounds that she would sooner have the stable boy at the garrison help deliver her baby.

Binding herself to hide her expanding belly becomes an increasingly difficult task. Soon she relies on cloaks and shawls to conceal the life growing inside her. She has no need to pretend, she’s carrying her husband’s child, but the fact that he knows nothing about it makes the situation seem awkward.

The market today is busier than usual and, overly tired, she loses her footing then rests for a while on one of the stone benches that surround the square, trying to recover her composure.

“Good day, Madame,” says a voice that is once again from the provinces, but an octave lower in pitch than the last time she heard that accent.

“Good day, Minister,” she says, pulling her cloak around her as protection from prying eyes. “I expected you to be permanently tied to the war rooms.”

“They let me out once in while,” says Treville, casting an inquisitive eye over her. "Now tell me, Milady, why aren't you living at the garrison? As the captain's wife you have every right to do so."

"It would not be acceptable," says Milady. The men, who have been left to guard their quarter of the city, would not take kindly to her presence. When Athos returns and they are a family things might be different, but for now it is out of the question.

“Well in that case, I hear Mme d’Artagnan has rooms she’s looking to let. You’ll be company for each other when she’s not staying at the palace.”

Milady frowns. “I don’t see that my accommodation is any of your business, M Treville.”

“Is Athos the father of your child?” he asks, as blunt as ever.

Milady wishes she had the right to take umbrage. She's not slept with another man since she has been reunited with her husband, nor will she do so, but her reputation precedes her and it is as tarnished as one can get. “The baby is his, yes,” she answers without slight.

“And is Athos aware of your condition?”

“No,” she admits.

“Then, you and your offspring are my business, and I will ensure you both are safely looked after until your husband’s return.” Treville smiles at her in a paternal manner. “I’ll have no more arguments. Give me your current address and I’ll contact you as soon as I speak to Constance.”

“I’m at Athos' old lodgings in Rue Ferou,” she says to which Treville pulls a face. “There may be a problem with your plan, M Treville. Mme d’Artagnan is not terribly fond of me, and with good reason.”

“Constance is a kind woman and a friend to Athos,” says Treville, warm and reassuring. “She’s also in need of a companion who understands what she is going through with her husband away at war. I don’t doubt for a minute that she will offer you a place to live.”

“I don't need anyone’s pity,” says Milady, feeling older than her years and more alone than ever.

“Then how about friendship?” asks Treville. “Surely you’re not averse to that, especially now there’s a little one on the way who’ll be requiring a lot of attention.”

Milady hangs her head, wishing for her pregnancy to be over. She knows exactly when their baby is due to be born. He was conceived in the monastery at Douai. It seems incredible that it happened after she'd prayed for a blessing, but that is the strange truth of it. From now on she'll be more careful when she’s conversing with God.

“May I escort you home?” Treville asks as he gets up from the bench and offers her a helping hand.

“Thank you, but no,” says Milady. “I have an appointment with the physician. His rooms are close by.”

“Then I shall be in touch soon,” says the minister, nodding his head to her and striding off in the direction of the palace. 

\---

Milady spends her first week, at the former Bonacieux residence, living on tenterhooks. She's expecting the worst from Constance and acts badly because of it, her hackles raised as she spits like an angry cat at every attempted conversation from her new landlady.

Today has been wasted visiting a series of midwives, each one more dreadful than the last, and she arrives home weary and disillusioned, more to the point frightened that she will end up birthing this baby alone. Sinking into one of the fireside chairs, she groans with relief as the weight is taken off her aching legs and back and lets out a single bitter sob that she has been left in this state. God wasn't blessing her; he was punishing her for her sins.

"Let me help you with your shoes."

Milady looks around the wing of the chair to discover Constance sitting at the kitchen table. "I didn't see you there," she says in confusion.

"Perhaps I should be a spy like you," says Constance as she approaches tentatively and kneels at Milady's feet to remove her ill fitting boots. "Your ankles are swollen." She moves the footstool nearer. "Put them up and I'll make you some warm milk."

Milady nods, hunting for appropriate words that won't sound false. She gives up and lifts her feet onto the worn embroidered cushion then sighs again with relief. "They don't tell you these things," she says and then she laughs a little at herself. "I am entirely innocent of all things to do with pregnancy, a claim I never thought I could make about anything."

Constance smiles at her. "You and innocence don't go hand in hand." She hands over the cup of milk. "It's not too hot. Just warm enough to soothe."

"Have you heard any news yet?" says Milady casually. It's the first time she has asked after the men and it feels strange to do so. "I had hoped for a letter by now." Athos used to write beautiful words to her: poetry, prose, small observations for her to read and laugh at.

Constance sits in the chair opposite. "Nothing at all," she says with a gloomy shake of the head. "I'd thought they'd have time for correspondence what with all the fannying about they're bound to be doing."

"Setting up their tents. Talking tactics with the generals." Milady tests Constance's sense of humour. "Roasting rabbits and telling war stories."

"Hugely exaggerated ones," chuckles Constance. "They'll each have defeated entire regiments with one swing of their bloody swords."

"Men," says Milady and smoothes her hand over the swell of her bump. "I'd give anything to be one."

They sit in companionable silence for a while and then Constance asks: "When is the baby due?"

"July," says Milady. "Four more months of hell. I don't recommend it."

"I wondered if I would fall pregnant before d'Artagnan left," says Constance.

"I was sure Athos and I were never going to have children." Milady sips at her drink. "I prayed for this baby. I never expected him to arrive without his father being there to greet him."

"You love Athos very much," says Constance as if she only now believes it.

"I do," says Milady. "Even when I hated him, after everything that had happened, I couldn't stop myself from loving him."

"It's a painful experience," says Constance.

"A disease for which there is no cure." Milady relaxes for the first time since the regiment left for the Spanish borders.

"Now to other important matters," says Constance. "What preparations have you made for the new arrival?"

"None." Milady shrugs. "It's months away yet."

"Knitting and sewing take time," laughs Constance.

"I can do neither," says Milady. "I assumed I'd be able to buy everything."

"On a soldier's wage?"

"A captain's wage," says Milady with a raised eyebrow.

"You must still live within your means," says Constance, folding her arms. "I'll teach you. It’ll help pass the days."

\---

Another two months drift by with still no word from the front.

“If this war was over something important, I wouldn’t mind so much,” mutters Constance. “But it’s only come about because of plots and schemes.”

Milady was once the mistress of plots and schemes and a part of her will always miss it. “I think the king and queen would differ in their opinions,” she says, fighting to pick up the stitch she has dropped from the knitting needle.

“But this is not a war about real people,” argues Constance. “No one cares about the ones who are crippled and starving. Us fools are only there to provide the aristocracy with food and carry their guns into battle.” She bustles around the kitchen. "And don’t get me started on men in general.“

"I’ve been married to Athos for eight years. Believe me, I understand the problems with nobility and men alike.”

“Your husband has an egalitarian soul considering he’s a comte,” says Constance.

Milady huffs out an irritated breath. “When it suits him and it doesn’t compromise his goals.”

“D'Artagnan’s the same,” says Constance. "Everything that obstructs his way is a triviality or an annoyance, regardless of how important it is, or how it might affect me.“

"Listen to us, bitching about our men,” laughs Milady. “Aren’t we a couple of old fishwives?”

“Better than sobbing over how much we miss them,” says Constance, her hand squeezing Milady’s shoulder as she passes by to stoke the range.

Just as supper is about to be served there’s a knock at the door and both women are surprised by the visit from M Treville. He arrives bearing a gift: a beautifully turned cradle made by the ancient regimental carpenter, Christophe who presents it to Milady with pride.

“It’s been a long time since I made something similar. I hope it suits, Madame.”

Milady is stunned. “Thank you both,” she says. “It’s perfect.”

The carpenter departs, leaving the minister free to take supper with them.

“There’s plenty,” assures Constance. “I have to make lots. My lodger eats like a horse.”

“I’m eating for two,” counters Milady with an affectionate smile at her landlady. Treville was right. Constance is the kindest of all people and has become a true friend.

“Then I shall be glad to dine with you,” says Treville, taking a seat at the table. “Some good honest food would be a treat. The meals at the palace are too rich for both my tastebuds and my stomach alike.”

“Bonbons with everything,” agrees Constance as she serves up the chicken. “I never thought it possible to have too many sweetmeats.”

Milady misses her luxuries. Perhaps the others could be persuaded to smuggle her out some goodies from the palace kitchens.

“How are you and the baby faring?” asks Treville as he pours himself a glass of wine. “Not long now, I take it.”

“Two months,” says Milady. The weather is getting hotter and the fetid stink from the streets stronger with every passing day. She longs for Pinon and the life that was stolen from them. “Is there any chance Athos will be home before then?” she asks, never keen to reveal any weakness, but she misses her husband so much she can no longer remain silent.

“I’m afraid not,” says Treville, his face falling.

He’s here to tell them the worst and Milady wants to shake the truth out of him. “What is wrong?” she demands. “Who has died?”

“No one, to my knowledge,” says Treville. “Nor have I had any reports of serious injuries, but a runner arrived at the palace today with information from General Delacroix that the regiment is involved in a long and bloody siege. There is no sign of it ending so I’m afraid you must prepare yourselves that the men may not return to Paris for many months.”

Milady bites her lip to prevent an outpouring of misery, and when Constance takes hold of her hand she is grateful for the comfort.

“You’ll be fine,” Treville reassures her. “You’ll be well looked after. I’ve asked the queen’s midwife to attend you when the time comes for your confinement. You and the baby could not be in better hands.”

“But he will not have a father,” says Milady in distress. “He may never have a father.”

\---

As July approaches with a sudden turn of speed, the two women read every medical book they can lay their hands on concerning pregnancy and birth.

"Madame de Larroque would be proud of us," laughs Constance "We're becoming learnéd and are taking control of our destinies."

Ninon's name has achieved legendary status in the d'Artagnan household. Constance brings her up, on a daily basis, as a paragon of all things inspirational and aspirational, but it only serves to remind Milady of her own wicked ways and of Athos' anger toward her. He surprised her that day. She'd never seen him with such passion in his eyes and it still smarts that it was directed _at_ her, but was not for her.

She believes Athos when he says he did not sleep with Ninon, but she is not certain why he stayed out of her bed when the woman so clearly wanted him. "Did my husband desire Mme de Larroque, do you think?" she asks, affecting a nonchalant manner.

“No.” Constance shakes her head. "He was her champion."

"I wish he’d been mine," says Milady as images flash through her mind of Thomas forcing himself on her, the disbelief in Athos' eyes, the hanging tree.

"He was once," says Constance. "In the alleyway."

It's the first time Constance has mentioned the kidnapping and, flush with embarrassment, Milady wishes she'd kept her mouth shut on the subject of chivalry. "He was going to execute me," she points out.

"No, he wasn't," scoffs Constance. "When he thought you'd been hanged because of him he gave up his old life and drank himself into a permanent stupor. He was trying to save you that day. To save you both, perhaps."

"I'm sorry for what happened." Milady turns the hem and makes a row of delicate stitches to finish off the miniature nightgown.

"It's over," replies Constance. "We're different people and we-"

The needlework drops to the hearth rug as Milady lets out a sharp cry of pain at the sudden contraction inside her. "Oh," she says when it's over. "That hurts. I'm not sure I'm going to enjoy childbirth."

"It's come earlier than we expected," says Constance. "Let me help you to your room."

"He's as impatient as his father," laughs Milady, using the table as a prop.

"You're determined that you're carrying a boy," says Constance as they make their way, in increments, up the narrow flight of stairs.

"I don't care either way," says Milady. "I just want this baby out of my body and safely in my arms."

As Constance makes up the bed with tattered linens, Milady changes into her nightdress, her eyes fixed firmly on the cradle in the corner. It's dressed ready for its tiny inhabitant and she can't wait to see it filled.

Three days later she's still lying in state in her chamber, with Constance running back and forth, tending to her in her confinement. Other than two more spasms of pain, there is no sign of a baby appearing in the near future.

"I'm bored," she shouts, not for the first time that day

"Maybe this will ease the tedium," says Constance, hurrying upstairs and thrusting a letter into her hand. "I have one too. Jacques brought them over from the garrison."

Constance scrabbles to open her correspondence, anxious to know what is going on with her husband, but Milady is more restrained, unfolding the paper slowly then staring at the elegant handwriting in a daze, wishing that the page would morph itself into its author.

_My darling wife,_

_I'm missing you terribly. This war is a bloody mess, but also a nuisance, insisting that we are parted from one another after such a short reunion. I tell myself everyday that I will see your face soon and this is the guiding light that keeps me going._

_Command is dull and time consuming. I have to remain sober, a task you know I find difficult, but I will do so in order to keep everyone safe. Porthos has received a wound to his chest, but his armour kept him alive. The gash has been patched up and he is doing well and is proud of his new scar as only Porthos could be. Aramis is both a surprise to me and a calming presence to all. That short time spent at Douai, combined with his experiences last year have changed him for the better and he is now a pillar of support rather than a boulder weighing me down. D'Artagnan is as fearless as you'd expect a young warrior to be. I spend most of my time talking him out of dangerous missions and his constant state of exuberance shows me that I am too old for this life. As for me, I am unharmed, but unhinged by this war. I long for our bed and your arms and everything that comes with it._

_Once again I miss you, my love, and am yours forever._

The letter is signed simply _Athos_ , but the script is just as ornate as when he held a different name and title.

"There you go, baby," Milady says, resting the letter on her belly. "In his own words, your father is unharmed but unhinged. I think that sums him up rather well." She turns to Constance who is sobbing away furiously in the window seat. "D'Artagnan is in good health?"

"Yes," sniffs Constance. "But I can't even write back to him."

Milady rolls onto her side to get comfortable and there is a sudden gush of fluid from inside her, a warm deluge wetting the sheets. She makes a grab for Athos' letter, putting it safely to one side as she is gripped by a vicious spasm of pain.

"Constance," she gasps. "It's really happening this time. My waters have broken. Send for the midwife."

The birthing process turns out to be long lasting but straightforward, and twelve hours later Milady delivers a son. He's beautiful, she thinks as she stares down at his small, rather squashed features. He has blue eyes that are verging on green. His skin is milky pale and his hair is a just a dusting of darkness at the moment, but already it is showing signs of curl. He is a gift from God, and as she puts him to her breast he latches on and feeds as if he's been doing so for years.

"He's a hungry wee mite," says the midwife, reaching for him. "Let me clean him up first and we'll put him in his crib whilst we see to the afterbirth." 

"He'll stay with me until he is satisfied," insists Milady, staring in wonder at the little boy in her arms. She never knew her mother or father. "You are my first blood relative," she whispers. "And I will look after you always."

Once he has suckled himself to sleep, Constance takes him over to the tin bath of water and washes him clean. He cries in fits and starts, but doesn't put up much of a fuss.

"He's such a little duck," she says, drying him and dressing him as she is used to doing with the dauphin.

In the meantime, the midwife washes Milady from top to toe, then pops a clean nightdress over her head and changes the sheets, leaving a pad of wadding beneath her to soak up the blood. "Will you be keeping the afterbirth to cook for your supper?" she says as she ties up the dirty washing for the laundress to collect.

Milady shudders inwardly and shakes her head. "No thank you, Madame."

"Then I'll take it and dispose of it for you," says the woman, popping the parcel into her bag. "Now if you're happy I'll leave you to your babe and see you in the morning."

Milady reaches for a pouch of coins and hands over what is due, plus a couple extra. "Thank you," she says sincerely. The midwife may be odd, but she's clean and kindly and is good at her job.

Constance is still cooing over the bundle in her arms. "He's beautiful," she says with delight. "I wish d'Artagnan would hurry up and come home so we could make one of our own."

"You may borrow this one as often as you like." Milady yawns and rolls onto her side, trying to get comfortable.

"Has he a name?" asks Constance.

"Not yet," says Milady, letting out a second yawn. "I'm working on it," she murmurs as her eyelids droop.

\---

Confinement has always seemed a questionable thing to Milady. The poor do not have this privilege; some women are out at work hours after birthing their children. She is, however, glad of the quiet spell so that she can bond with her son and allow her body to recuperate. The queen has kindly given Constance time off from palace duties to look after her and, because of it, Milady has been well fed and spoilt for a fortnight. She guards her boy jealously, but does allow Constance the occasional chance to play at being aunt, as she promised when he was born.

The first visitor to the house is, of course, M Treville, who arrives without ceremony, keen to see the newest Musketeer baby: a legitimate one at that.

“He’s a fine little fellow,” he says, sitting in one of the easy chairs. "May I hold him?“

Milady settles her child into the arms of a man who is unused to babies, but appears eager to learn. Treville is the nearest her boy will get to a grandparent–the best he could ever wish for–and she blinks away tears that come all too often to her at present. She’s happy, but this is tempered by a loss she cannot explain to anyone.

Treville looks away from the babe for a moment to glance up at Milady. "Athos will be the proudest man alive when he comes home to this chap.”

The certainty and matching pride in his voice is enough to convince Milady of something she’s been mulling over for a while. "I’d like to call him Jean, if that would be acceptable?“ 

It hardly differs from the name she’d always intended for a son–the English version of it, John–but this has far more significance. If he grows up anything like his namesake then he will be a good man.

Treville gazes down at the little one who is balling his fists and beginning to grizzle. "It would be an honour.”

“Come then, Jean Olivier,” says Milady briskly, reclaiming her baby from his adoptive grandpa. “It’s time for luncheon and a nap.”

—

Their small family may be odd in terms of convention, but they get by very well. Jean is a happy baby and is growing accustomed to visits from old Musketeers who drop in with regularity to see the captain’s new son. He is, after all, one of their own and, by default, Milady is now accepted into the fold.

Even her Majesty pays them a visit, dressed in the guise of a very rich peasant girl, and bringing with her a solid silver rattle as a gift – plus, to Milady’s delight, heaps of bonbons for her.

“I’d forgotten how tiny newborns are,” the queen says as she cradles Jean in her arms.

There is a quiet moment of bonding between the two women: an understanding of the immense sorrow that comes from not being able to share this joy with the one person who should be there.

“I must go,” continues the queen. “My guards will be growing restless.”

As Constance shows their royal guest to the door, Milady sinks into the chair, the baby tucked safely against her. “I never imagined we would have such a busy life, my darling boy,” she says, lifting him so that she can look into his eyes then smiling with delight as his little bud of a mouth moves as if he’s trying hard to respond to his mama.

“What on earth is this?” says a familiar voice that she has not heard for many months.

D'Artagnan is looming over them with Constance clinging on to him and sobbing her heart out. Milady can see from his stance and his demeanour that he is well, but the state of his health is the least of her concerns.

“Athos!” she says, her voice scratchy with panic. "He won’t know where we are. I must go to the garrison.“

D'Artagnan’s face says more than words ever could. The flood banks burst fully for the first time since the Musketeers left for war and Milady cries, rocking the baby who has joined in with her tears. "How did he die?”

D'Artagnan crouches next to her and curls his hand around her wrist. “Athos is not dead. He is imprisoned in Spain, but he is alive and well, I promise you.”

There is the sound of a door opening and closing and then more footsteps, but Milady refuses to look up because no one here is her husband. He has not come home to them.

“Listen to me,” says Treville. “All is not lost. He did the honourable thing and handed himself over to the Spanish in return for the release of prisoners of war. Aramis stayed also to tend to those who were too sick to be moved.”

“Then they’re both fools.” Milady is filled with a sudden venomous anger. “And Athos is the worst kind of all: a self sacrificing bastard who always has to play the martyr,” she spits. “What about me? What about Jean?” Startled, the baby begins to wail and Constance takes him from Milady.

“Stop your hysterics,” she says. “You’re frightening your son.”

“This is my fault,” says a voice which reminds Milady of Porthos, but is changed somehow. She looks up to see an altered man, his face twisted with pain, his body wasted from illness and injury. 

“If I’d known about the baby, I’d never have let him do it,” he continues, growing more dejected by the second.

“It wasn’t your choice to make, Porthos,” says d'Artagnan. “Dozens of injured men were released, not just you. Athos did the only thing he could. He was our only collateral.”

“He didn’t know about the child,” says Treville and, on cue, they all jump at the sound of a rattle being thrown to the floor.

“He would have done the same thing even if he had known,” says Milady. She is calmer now, resigned to this, and knows she cannot blame Athos for his decision. He has learned from selfish mistakes, as has she.

“I’m going back there to get them out,” says Porthos, trying to muster some strength, but even as he speaks, his legs go from under him and he drops listlessly into a chair.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Porthos,” says Treville, bending down and picking up the rattle then handing it back to its owner. “I’ll talk to the king and convince him to negotiate. The first chapter of war is lost and we must reclaim what is ours.”

He leaves in a flurry of determination and Milady’s prayers go with him. God interceded in their lives once before, so why not a second time?

“Here,” says Constance, placing the baby in Porthos’ arms. 

At first Jean begins to cry. “He’s not used to rough old soldiers,” says the big man as he gives Athos’ son a wary look of appraisal, but soon the boy quietens down and is examining him back with inquisitive green eyes.

“You’d be surprised how many Musketeers come visiting,” says Constance.

D'Artagnan raises his eyebrows. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” he says with a chuckle. “Athos and I have been replaced.”

“They want to see the babe not us,” laughs Constance, punishing her husband for his cheek with a sharp smack on the arse.

Their play saddens Milady and she can’t help but feel cheated. However as she watches Porthos talk softly to the small boy nestled against him, she’s filled with an unexpected relief that half their number have returned safely to Paris. The others will follow along soon enough.

\---

Between the sounds of ardent love making from the bedroom adjacent to hers, and the wails of a teething baby, Milady wonders whether she will ever get any sleep again. Christmas has come and gone, and from advent to epiphany she attended mass regularly, finding it a comfort where all else failed.

Since then, church has become a habit. She’s just returned from the Sunday service at l'eglise St Martin and is about to lift Jean from his baby carriage when instinct makes her turn to the door. Her heart begins to thump, beats scattering all over the place, because standing there, silhouetted against the light, is the unmistakeable form of Athos.

Rooted to the spot, frightened that he’s a ghost, she then pulls herself together and runs at him, fists hammering against his chest to prove that he is solid and back where he belongs.

“You,” she sobs. “You came home.”

“To a surprise, I gather,” he says in that calm and considered manner of his that both soothes and irritates her in equal measure. “Let me see our son.”

“Damn your chatterbox friends, I wanted to be first to tell you,” she says, leading Athos over to the carriage, her fingers twisting helplessly against his.

Jean is asleep, his fist pressed against this mouth as he sucks at his thumb. He’s rosy from the fresh air, his lashes lie long and thick against his skin and he is a picture.

“God, but he’s beautiful,” says Athos in a hushed voice.

“Then you’re the same arrogant upstart as always because he’s the image of you.” Milady laughs at her husband, clutching the leather of his jacket and knowing that he is here and real and hers. Theirs. Hers and Jean’s.

They kiss, tenderly at first and then with increasing passion for each other. “Would it be too terrible to carry you off to bed?” he asks, his lips tilting into a smirk.

“Jean is sleeping and there is a lock on the chamber door,” says Milady and then she laughs again full of joy. “Besides, we’ll not be long.”

“Not the first time,” agrees Athos. “But then I intend to kiss every single inch of your body.”

“That pleasure can wait until tonight.” She unfastens the top buttons of his breeches and slides a hand downwards to grasp his cock. “For god’s sake, just fuck me.”

“Temptress.” Athos swings her over his shoulder and carries her upstairs, following her directions to the room then laying her reverently on the bed.

Unlacing her bodice, he stares, with obvious appreciation at her enlarged breasts. “These are not as I left them,” he says, teasing a trickle of sweet milk from each one and then leaving the rest for the baby. “I’ll have to share from now on.”

“Not for ever,” she says, reaching up to stroke his long hair. “You’re prettier than I am with all these curls.”

Lifting her skirts and tugging down her drawers, he tests her with his fingers and finds that she is wet and ready for him. She clasps him to her, urging him on, and with a forceful thrust he enters her, then stills for a moment drinking her in and recovering his composure. He’s real, thick inside her, hot against her, and they kiss with utter delight at being reunited again and then begin to romp playfully on the bed. There’s no emotional outpouring, no desperate declarations of romantic adoration, just the release that comes from having good hard sex, exactly the way she likes it.

“I’d forgotten how entertaining you are in bed,” she says after they’re done and are lying breathless and dishevelled together in a muddle of clothes.

“I’d forgotten nothing about you,” says Athos, kissing her softly on the lips. “From now on, my love, you and Jean will take precedence over everything.”

Milady is momentarily flummoxed. The thing with Athos is that he always means what he says. The baby starts crying downstairs and going to fetch him gives her time to collect her thoughts.

“If there’s another war then what will you do?” she asks as she returns to bed with a precious if noisy child, tucking him against her and quieting him with a full breast.

Athos grows in serenity as he watches her feeding their son. “I’ll stay here in Paris if they need me, but I’ll not go to the battle front. I think we’ve both given enough, don’t you? It’s time for us to have a life of our choosing.”

Almost a decade has passed since Milady last considered such things, but Jean needs a name and a future, as do any other children that may happen along. However this is not worth fretting over just yet. For the time being, they’ll move into the captain’s quarters at the garrison where Athos will command a regiment of men who have grown to respect both him and his family.

“I love you,” she says as she leans against his shoulder with their baby in her arms. She is no longer wary of admitting her feelings out loud, for she knows now that they are far from a sign of weakness, but, on the contrary, one of strength.

“Likewise,” replies Athos as he rests a gentle hand on his son’s head.

 

\---end


	5. Disarming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for an anon prompter on Tumblr who wanted a cute one shot from the future with Athos teaching his son Jean to fight.
> 
> Commanding a regiment of Musketeers is easy in comparison to being a father.

The alto chuckle of laughter from outside is both distinctive and appealing. Athos pushes aside his paperwork and returns to the light, joining his wife on the walkway and slipping both arms around her expanding waistline.

“I’m surprised you can still reach,” she says and as she turns to smile at him he steals a kiss, enjoying the solid strength of the baby kicking inside her. “He never stops moving,” she adds, leaning back against her husband. He is her prop in all ways. They are everything to each other.

“ _She_ ,” corrects Athos. There’s something about this new child that sings to him of Milady. Of her determined ways and sheer bloodymindedness. Of her secret softness and quiet happiness. “She’ll be a little hothead like you, my love.”

Milady laughs again, pointing out something that’s happening in the yard and Athos follows her line of sight to see his son playing havoc with the Musketeers’ training regime.

“I thought he was spending the afternoon with Constance and Alexandre,” says Athos, frowning in frustration. Why was d’Artagnan blessed with a perfectly behaved child whereas he had Jean? Surely it should be the other way around.

“He escaped a half hour since,” says Milady. “You know what a horror he is.” She has a look of pride in her eyes. “I’d better go and rescue your men.”

“I’ll go,” says Athos. “You have a lie down.”

She kisses him gratefully. This second pregnancy is wearing her out and she appreciates having a bedroom here, as well as a more luxurious nest at their new city home. Soon they must move out to Blois, but for now they’re content with Parisian life.

Athos shakes his head as he descends the steps. Jean is three years old and as willful as any child could ever be. Not too surprising considering his parentage, but embarrassing at times for his father, the regimental commander. Luckily the soldiers think no less of him for being unable to control his little one.

“I think your boy may have hit on a new defensive tactic,” says Porthos, gruff voiced but clearly amused. Jean is standing on a large boot and clinging to his uncle’s leg like the monkey he is, cackling with laughter.

“He may yet drive me back to the sanctuary of the monastery,” smiles Aramis. “How am I supposed to teach Porthos to fight when he has your child attached to him at all times?”

D’Artagnan looks smugly over from the shooting range. If he’d dared say anything then Athos would have been tempted to slice hs pauldron off at the straps. As it is he remains judiciously silent and, because of it, is still a commissioned Musketeer.

“What do you mean by teach me?” questions Porthos, picking up on Aramis’ last sentence.

A good sparring match will no doubt result from this squabble. Athos smirks and removes his child from Porthos’ leg, spinning the boy around in a somersault and landing him square on his shoulders.

“Again, Papa, again,” squeals Jean and, hanging on tight to Athos’ hair, he leans forward to smile at him.

“I have a present for you,” says Athos. “Will you be a good boy if I let you have it?”

“Yes,” promises Jean, throttling his father with a well intentioned hug.

“Christophe,” shouts Athos, waving the carpenter over from his workshop. “Is Jean’s present ready?”

“Yes, M Athos.” The old man’s smile is lacking in teeth, but full of heart. “Yours too, sir,” he adds, bringing both weapons over.

Athos lifts Jean free of his shoulders and crouches down to present him with the beautifully crafted dummy sword. “This not a toy, Jean. Do you understand? You only use this when I’m with you.”

“I can be a soldier too?” says Jean solemnly, staring at Athos with huge green eyes.

“One day yes, if you work hard and listen to me when I’m teaching you how to use it properly. But I’ll only do that if you do something in return for me.”

“What?” says Jean.

“Soon Mama will have a new baby to look after and she needs you to be a good boy. Can you do that for me?”

Jean nods again and stands there like a stocky little statue, clasping the hilt of his sword. He’s never been this quiet since he was born and Athos hopes he’s not broken that defiant spirit.

His son then looks at him and giggles. “Play with me, Papa,” he yelps, digging Athos in the leg with the blunted end of the wooden rapier and running off towards the stables.

Athos discards his own dummy sword to the training mats and chases after the little rogue. “Maybe he’s not ready just yet,” he mutters to himself, swooping Jean into his arms, knowing that he should discipline him with more than a kiss to the top of his curls, but is quite unable to do so.

“Porthos, fetch me some paper and a quill,” says Aramis.

“Fetch it yourself,” growls Porthos. “I’m not your lackey. What do you want it for anyway?”

“I’m writing to the Abbot at Douai,” explains Aramis, ruffling Jean’s hair as he wriggles free of his father’s arms and swaggers past, brandishing his sword with glee. “The garrison is no longer a safe place to live.”

Porthos guffaws with laughter. “While you’re at it, ask if they’ve a spot free for me.” 

Privately, Athos thinks he might too be tempted to take holy orders as he tries and fails to disarm his son.


End file.
